


How to Romance a Hockey Player

by Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 09:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12504512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells/pseuds/Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells
Summary: Crushes on straight men are useless. But crushes on gay men, on bisexual men, on bisexual men who just so happen to be his hockey soulmate and best friend in the entire world?Those are just cool.So very, very cool.After Holster comes out, Ransom needs a plan. A plan to make his best friend fall in love with him. What could possibly go wrong?





	How to Romance a Hockey Player

“So, Rans, buddy, you might want to put down those books,” says Holster casually as they wander through the uppermost echelons of the library on a fine fall afternoon.

 

“Hmm, why’s that?” he says replies absentmindedly, still skimming the section on _Le Grand Derangement_. Holster had decided to take the course on Canadian history which Samwell offered (to “better understand some of that nonsense you and Jack spew sometimes, because it just can’t be real. Milk? In a bag?”) and Justin had joined him, if only to keep Holster quiet during seminar and to prevent him from namedropping specific Canadians he knew.

 

The downside to taking the class is, well, the work.

 

Holster turns the corner with him, bumping into the bookshelves as they pass “I’ve just got something to tell you, and it’s a little surprising. Or, I think it is.”

 

Holster has probably recently discovered a new hangover “cure,” one including copious amounts of hot sauce and a little bit of banana if his shopping habits are anything to go by.

 

“You can just tell me, bro,” he says. “It’s chill.”

 

He hears a deep inhale, then a shaky exhale. Repeat. Finally, just when he’s about to turn around in actual concern, Holster speaks. “I’m into men. Sexually.”

 

What the…

 

“Fuck!” he shouts at the sudden pain in his foot, belatedly realizing that he had indeed dropped his stack of books directly onto his toes, incurring enough agony to bring tears to his eyes. Who knew tomes on Acadian history could hurt as much as a bonecrunching hit from a full-grown hockey player?

 

He bends down to retrieve the books and snaps up to see a deeply concerned look etched into Holster’s face. _Shit_ , he thinks. Does Holster think he was reacting to him?

 

“So, you’re what, bisexual?” he says, clearing his throat. “Or, are you like gay now?”

 

“Oh, definitely bisexual. I have never pretended to be interested in women. It’s just, you know, I can appreciate a little scruff every now and again. On the face, of course.”

 

“Dude.”

 

“Sorry, man. Just a little nervous.”

 

“Why would you be?” asks Justin, and it’s a genuine question. Bitty is as gay as Georgian peach pie, and Jack is not-so-secretly dating very gay Bitty, making him at least bisexual. Plus there’s the fact that Justin himself has dated men. Has _told_ Holster about said men, both Jake from next door in high school and then Alonzo from the crew team at Samwell, although the latter was never a relationship, just a mutually beneficial series of hookups.

 

Holster shrugs, his cheeks reddening. “I know it’s stupid. Just…sometimes people surprise you.” He offers a half-grin, muted, entirely un-Holster-like. “But it’s cool?”

 

“Of course it’s cool, bro. It’s all cool.”

 

And it is cool. Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool. Cool, like whatever that character from Community said (or was it Brooklyn Nine-Nine? He loses track). So cool, in fact, that there’s currently an inferno raging deep within the pit of his belly. His entire being is just a parched California forest, waiting for the inevitable wildfire.

 

See, it’s a lot easier to dismiss crushes on straight men. He ignores his straight crushes the way he ignores the small bruises dotting his body during hockey season, the way he ignores his own constant questions about medical school and his future and all other kinds of gross, uncertain things. It’s not that these are not important. It’s just that, well, it’s easier if you don’t think about them.

 

Crushes on straight men are useless. But crushes on gay men, on bisexual men, on bisexual men who just so happen to be his hockey soulmate and best friend in the entire world?

 

Those are just cool.

 

So very, very cool.

 

 

Once Holster comes out to him, the stray thought which used to drift through his head during long showers, or in the breath between waking and sleeping, the thought that whispers,  _you could fall in love with Holster, not just best-friend, platonic love, but the I want to spread my hand across the planes of your chest, dragging it slowly down until I reach your_ —

 

That kind of love. Before Holster came out to him in the seventh floor of the library, he could use his considerable disciplinary powers to suppress that thought. It was only when he relaxed, when he allowed his thoughts to tumble round his brain unperturbed by any constraints that the thought could escape its ironclad restraints, loosening the manacles of assumed heterosexuality. The “what if.”

 

Holster’s revelation has smashed those manacles, and now, it is he who cannot escape.

 

“What is the mechanism for halogenation?” he mutters to himself, alone in the attic, scribbling his pen across the paper.  _Holster looked extraordinary today, coming out from the shower. He’s been lifting more and it definitely shows_.

 

He takes a lap around Faber, snow plows into a stop.  _We could adopt a dog, a huge fluffy one, and I could fall asleep with one hand on the dog, one hand curled around Holster’s waist._

 

He heaps a mound of eggs onto his plate at breakfast.  _Imagine Holster sweeping him off his feet, supporting him as he wraps his legs around Holster’s body and presses kisses into the corner of jaw, feeling the scrape of stubble against stubble._

 

He’s drifting to sleep, head tilted against Holster’s as they sit on the couch, soaking in the heat from the furnace-like body next to him, and he thinks,  _who needs the sun when I have him to keep me warm?_  Then he slaps himself because that’s too much sap, even for him.

 

In short, there’s barely even a battle, barely even a fight for him to lose. And yet he’s losing it badly anyways. Because now that Holster is “into men, sexually,” he allows himself just a glimmer of hope. If Holster loving him back is even a remote possibility, he feels he needs to try. He might never find that sort of happiness anywhere else. Normally, he would know what to do, or at least be confident in himself to figure it out. But this might be the most important thing he’s ever done, and like all hockey players, he’s most comfortable with the support of a team. 

 

 

 

“Bitty, if, hypothetically, I needed to ask someone out, what would I, hypothetically of course, do?”

 

Bitty narrows his eyes, presses flour-covered hands against his hips. “Oh goodness, this does depend quite a bit on these hypothetical circumstances we’re discussing.”

 

Justin leans back against the counter, fiddling with the scraps of dough adhered to the corner. “Let’s say I know this person well. I talk to them regularly. I see them in person frequently. You know, not a stranger.”

 

Bitty purses his lips, not in the stern, disapproving way he does when directing a particularly scathing takedown towards a freshman about to puke in the kitchen during a kegster, but in a truly thoughtful way. He’s definitely giving the question some serious thought.

 

“Well,” says Bitty slowly, “I’m a simple man, you know? So, does this person like food?”

 

Yesterday, at breakfast Holster had slapped four sausages in between two pancakes, pronounced it a “Birkholtz Breakfast Sandwich Extraordinaire,” and taken it to go for a mid-morning snack.

 

“Yeah, I think that’s pretty fair to say,” he says.

 

“Well, my default is baking. Nothing warms someone’s spirit like a piping hot peach pie.”

 

Justin was afraid Bitty would suggest something like that. “That’s great Bits, but in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly five-star chef here. Or really any kind of chef.”

 

“Nonsense,” says Bitty. “Look, it’s easy. I can even show you!”

 

A week later, and Justin’s sure Bitty is regretting his decision. Though Justin likes to believe he contributed somewhat to the baking of the pie (he can cut up apples, thank you very much), everything good about the pie has sprung from Bitty’s very capable hands.

 

Except for one thing: the custom-made fortune cookie fortune he’s ordered and baked into the pie. That, and the contents of the note, are entirely his:

 

_Roses are red_

_Violets are blue_

_I’m into men_

_But especially you_

 

Well, it is poetry, in the most technical terms. He never claimed to have any real talent at this, and besides, Holster will know that this is by far the most romantic thing he’s ever done.

 

He presents the pie to Holster when the rest of the team has vacated the Haus. On such a beautiful autumn day, with the leaves crackling underfoot and the air so crisp you can snap it off with a flick of the wrist, most of Samwell has ventured outside. Holster, of course, has procrastinated his first paper for the Canadian history course and appears to have decided that Justin can serve as a primary academic source on the war of 1812 (“They teach you this shit in high school, and you were born there, you’re like, as primary as it gets.”)

 

“You got a minute?” he says, poking his head into the attic.

 

Holster’s nose twitches. “If you’re bringing me pie, then the answer is that I have all the minutes in the day. Tomorrow, too, if I can spare them.”

 

Holster looks up at him with wide, expecting blue eyes, and the strange _thud_ of his heart leaves him a little breathless.

 

He clears his throat. “Thought I’d bake something to cheer you up.”

 

Those baby-blue eyes widen even further. “Wait, _you_ baked this?”

 

“Don’t act so surprised.”

 

Holster holds up his hands defensively. “Bro, I believe you can do anything. I’ve just never seen you express like, even an iota of interest in baking. And we’ve practically lived with a sentient oven for the past year and a half.”

 

Justin shrugs, deliberately casual. “Figure it’s something I should know how to do for next year. You know, when I’ve got to actually cook for myself and shit.”

 

Holster shakes his head. “This is why you’re the smart one here.”

 

“And in the meantime, you can reap its rewards.” He offers the pie, which is still piping hot. Holster doesn’t hesitate in grabbing one of the Frisbees they’ve coopted as plates to serve himself a huge chunk of pie. Justin can see the fortune cookie paper floating out from the slice, waiting for Holster’s attention.

 

He waits with baited breath.

 

Then watches as Holster shoves half the slice into his face, not even using a fork, and that bite includes the paper. He chews normally, apparently entirely unaware that he is consuming something which is distinctly non-food. Justin waits for him to notice the different texture, the strange taste, but then Holster chews one last time, swallows, and reaches in for another bite.

 

He ate Justin’s message. Fuck.

 

“Dude,” says Holster, spewing crumbs. Fortunately by now, Justin knows how far away he needs to stand to stay out of the splash zone. “This is delicious. What the hell? I never knew you could bake.”

 

 “Ah, well,” he says, shoving down the mixture of disappointment and latent anxiety still bubbling in his throat. “It was kind of complicated. This might be a one-time thing.”

 

“You ever change your mind, I better be the first to know,” says Holster. “Say, now that you’re here, do you mind if I ask a question? I think the answer’s in my notes, but if you’re already around…”

 

Ransom sighs and settles in for an afternoon of history.

 

 

 

After Bitty’s technique failed so spectacularly, he decides to turn elsewhere for advice. He’s not really sure who else is the logical next choice, but Nursey always seems to have good luck with girls during parties, rarely leaving alone. Plus, Nursey studies English and poetry, and that can be romantic. At least, it probably can. He’s never thought about it that much.

 

He slides down across Nursey at lunch on Wednesday afternoon. It’s one of the few days where he and Holster don’t eat lunch together (Holster has a senior econ seminar), but the team still meets up haphazardly for lunch via the groupchat from time to time. Today, it’s just him and Nursey.

 

“If you needed to get someone to like you, how would you do it?” he says, with no introduction.

 

To his credit, Nursey does maintain his impressively chill façade, but some surprise still flashes across his face. It’s not that they’re not friends or don’t talk, but they don’t usually talk about  _romance_. Or much outside of hockey for that matter.

 

“Someone catch your eye?” says Nursey in between bites of his pasta.

 

“Uh, yeah. Sort of.”

 

“I don’t know, man,” said Nursey. “I don’t really ask people out that much.”

 

“But you must say something to all those girls you take home,” he insists. “Like, every opportunity, you and some chick hook up.”

 

“That’s different than asking someone out,” says Nursey, who by now is openly confused. “And it’s not like you do so bad yourself. You and Holster usually find people if you want.”

 

“I know, I know,” he says. “It’s just—this is different, you know? I feel like what I do normally wouldn’t work.”

 

“Hmm,” says Nursey. He takes another bite of his pasta, chews it contemplatively, then swallows slowly. This is why they don’t hang out more—Nursey’s languid approach to life is entirely incompatible with Justin’s almost neurotic need to be working on something (even if that “work” involves heavy drinking and partying). “Well, I don’t really know what to tell you. When I go up to a girl, I just say something nice. Tell her she’s got nice eyes, maybe throw a little Neruda at her.”

 

He’s pretty sure if he asked Holster about his thoughts on the poet, Holster would want to know what sort of vegetable a Neruda was.

 

“You just compliment them?”

 

“Yeah, sure. It’s not that complicated. We’re just trying to hook up. It’s not like I know the girl enough to say much more about her personality.”

 

Huh. Maybe Nursey has a point. Holster definitely knows Justin likes his personality (why else would they spend half their waking hours in some form of contact with each other), but other than quick exchanges—“Dude, you’re gonna crush it tonight with that jacket” “Bro, you think?” “Yeah you look great. Fits your shoulders perfectly”—he’s never taken the time to express to Holster exactly how much he appreciates, well, everything about him. Physically, no, Holster isn’t a model or anything, but he’s still one of the finer specimens on Samwell’s campus in Justin’s opinion. Hours of exercise from hockey and the gym have toned his muscles, broadened his shoulders, and like all hockey players, he has a remarkable ass. And facewise, Holster doesn’t necessarily choose the haircuts which suit him best, but nothing can hide his expressive baby-blue eyes, which always provide a direct pathway to his current emotions and feelings.

 

“You know, I think I’m going to try that,” says Justin, snapping back to reality.

 

“Compliments? Sure, go for it, I guess.”

 

“Thanks, Nurse,” he says and holds out his fist for a quick pound. Nursey obliges without thought, and then they return to the much safer topic of assistant coach Gable’s latest idea for the powerplay.

 

Justin waits to implement his new approach until Sunday afternoon. After a busy weekend, including a rather brutal roadie which involved sitting in Connecticut/New York traffic for hours, he finally feels like he has time to breathe, like he has time to give this venture the thought it merits. He’s tried dropping a few compliments throughout the trip, being even more enthusiastic over Holster’s hockey skills during games, more effusive in his appreciation, but this is where he dives in deep.

 

Holster is working on an econ p-set in the attic, alternating between humming and quiet singing as he scribbles his pencil along a notepad. Though it’s late fall, any heat from the Haus tends to rise straight to the top, leaving the attic comfortably cozy. A simple blue frat tank stretches over Holster’s back, leaving most of his back and shoulders exposed.

 

“That shirt looks good on you, Holtzy,” he says.

 

Holster pauses in his scribbling, pushes his glasses up over the bridge of his nose, but doesn’t turn around. “Uh, thanks? I think it might actually be yours.”

 

“Is it?” He genuinely doesn’t know. Sometimes, after three years of sharing a living space, he loses track of ownership. “Well, if it is mine, you should keep it.”

 

“If you say so,” says Holster. “Then you should keep that stripey one of mine you’re always wearing. That green really looks great with your color.” He returns to his p-set, resumes his muffled singing as if no interruption had occurred.

 

This isn’t going how Justin planned. Well, to be honest, he’s not really sure what he expected, but maybe a less casual response? The only option is to dig in deeper.

 

“You have a great voice,” he says. He’s never complimented Holster on his singing before, so this is bound to draw some attention. “I just—sometimes I don’t think people appreciate it enough.” He swallows. “So, I thought I would let you know that I do. Appreciate it, that is.”

 

Holster twists around in his chair. “What’s going on here?”

 

“Nothing,” says Justin. “I’m just trying to pay you a compliment here, jeez.”

 

Holster narrows his eyes. “What’s wrong? Did Chowder try singing in the shower in the morning, because god knows I love the man, but he’s so pitchy sometimes it just puts me off my breakfast—

 

“Nothing puts you off your breakfast.”

 

“—and as I was  _saying_ ,” continues Holster, pointedly, “maybe that has caused you to appreciate someone who’s, you know, on key every now and then.” He shudders dramatically. “Lord knows I miss Jack, but I do  _not_  miss that man’s inability to carry a tune.”

 

Justin flops on the bottom bunk, pressing his back against the posters plastered on the wall. He knows Holster can be persnickety (and quite frankly, a bit of a tight-ass) about music. Knows he can get away with it because of his own ability. He crosses his arms and fixes his best friend with a glare. “Is it that hard to believe I’m just trying to be nice, unprompted by anything else?”

 

Holster shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s like, I know you don’t hate my singing otherwise we never could have coexisted together for so long. And not trying to brag, but I know I sing well. Remember when I auditioned for a capella freshman year? I had a spot before I realized I could never do manage both that and hockey.” He grins smugly. “They definitely wanted me bad though. I probably could’ve gotten you in too, as part of the bargain.”

 

Justin sighs. “Well, I just wanted to say that you sounded especially good today. No ulterior motives.” It’s times like these he’s grateful he’s a good liar. If Holster were to lie like this, he’d spot the fib in seconds.

 

“Well, thanks, man,” says Holster. “You know, anytime you want me to serenade you, all you gotta do is ask. I’ve got a pretty good repertoire.”

 

Justin allows the conversation to evolve naturally from there and abandons Nursey’s methods. Holster he knows what Justin likes, what he doesn’t. It’s part of the reason why he loves him. Besides, he doesn’t want to force the issue, not when he can enjoy the organic chemistry they’ve always shared.

 

It just means he has to look elsewhere for help.

 

 

“Dex, you had a girlfriend in high school, yeah?” he asks in the locker room. Everyone else has left, including Holster, leaving just the two D-men.

 

Dex blushes instinctively. “Yeah, so?”

 

“Chill, man, it’s cool,” he says. “I just have a question.”

 

“Oh.” Dex finishes toweling off his hair, leaves it looking like an poppy than anything else, but Justin’s not about to mention that. “Sure, I guess.”

 

“How did you ask her out?”

 

“What?”

 

“How did you ask her out?”

 

Dex pauses, then says simply. “I didn’t. She asked me.”

 

Oh. He wasn’t expecting that answer. Dex has evolved since coming to Samwell, but he still tends more towards the “traditional” approach when it comes to these things. He’d assumed, but clearly he’d assumed incorrectly.

 

“So, how did that go? Like, how’d she do it?’

 

The blush returns, this time with a vengeance. “Um, well, I’d sort of been hinting for a while that I was interested, you know? Just like, getting closer physically. I don’t know. Hugging longer. Hugging, period, seeing as I’m not really the type.” He squints into the fluorescent locker room lights. “So one day, we were alone by the docks, and I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and she just said, ‘If you’re going to keep doing that, you should just ask me out and not be so nervous about it.’”

 

Justin pauses in toweling off his own body. “That’s…that’s surprisingly sweet.”

 

“Yeah, she was pretty great,” said Dex. “But it was hard to keep it going long distance, you know? She wanted a fresh start out in California.” He narrows his eyes, as if suddenly suspicious. “Why do you ask? This isn’t fuel for Nursey to make fun of me, is it?”

 

Justin throws up his hands. “Whoa, no, not at all. Just me trying to figure out something.”

 

The suspicious look doesn’t leave Dex’s face. “Figure out something? That’s not vague at all.”

 

“I’m trying to ask someone out, trying to gauge if there’s a chance they could ever like me back. So I wanted to see how you did it.”

 

“Oh,” says Dex. “Wow. Uh, not that I’m not grateful or flattered that you’d ask, but I also can’t believe you came to me.”

 

“You’re not the first person I’ve asked,” he admits morosely. “The past bits of advice haven’t exactly worked out for me.”

 

“Well, whoever they are, they’d be lucky to have you,” says Dex in a surprisingly sincere moment. “Just, I don’t know, try opening up? Like this is really cliché, but show don’t tell. They’ll figure it out. That was what worked for me.”

 

He can’t help but ruffle Dex’s hair. It’s not like the hair had any sort of order before. “Thanks, man.”

 

“Sure,” says Dex. “Anytime.”

 

The thing is, he and Holster are already affectionate. For God’s sake, they  _cuddle_  on a regular basis, when Justin swears the ghosts have started acting up, when Holster complains of the cold and he sighs and settles down in the bottom bunk for the night, when they’re watching a sitcom (or Holster is watching, and Justin’s surreptitiously sneaking glances at his textbook before Holster slaps his wrist to keep him focused), when on more than one occasion, they just sit next to each other and live their lives, drifting closer and closer until finally they fall asleep, side by side.

 

That’s not even including the ass-slapping and hugs and fist bumps and the occasional steadying hand after Holster (and it’s always Holster) trips over a crack in the sidewalk. Basically, the only part of Holster he hasn’t touched is his dick, and well, that’s what all of this is supposed to change.

 

Still, Holster is a tactile person who responds to physical interaction as much as verbal, so he figures its worth a shot.

 

For two weeks, he makes a conscious effort to touch Holster, and to lengthen what contact they do have. Instead of a standard celly on the ice, he yanks Holster in for a tight, bone-crushing hug, rotating them around like a spinning top. When he rises from the table at commons after team breakfast, he places a hand on Holster’s arm or shoulder for support, and on the bus during roadies, he allows himself to drift to sleep, buffeted by the expanse of Holster’s body.

 

For his part, Holster doesn’t remark upon any changes. So Justin decides to make a more extreme move.

 

They have movie night one Friday, just the two of them. Holster has been bugging him for weeks to watch some movie Justin’s barely even heard of, and this should be the perfect time to try out his plan.

 

They start out sitting next to each other on the couch, as always. Beer and popcorn flank the couch on the side tables, and Justin’s splurged on both good beer and kettle corn, a favorite of Adam’s from his boy scout days. And why shouldn’t he? Even without his ulterior motives, they’ve been planning this for weeks.

 

Holster eyes the Dogfish IPA appreciatively. “Dude, where’d you get this? I thought they didn’t sell it at Stop & Shop.”

 

“They don’t,” he says, cracking open his own bottle. “I borrowed a car, took a little field trip.”

 

“Bro, you are far too good to me,” says Holster. He takes a deep swig of his drink and emits a satisfied grunt.

 

“It’s half for myself,” he reminds Holster. “If this movie turns out to be shit, I want to at least enjoy the beer.”

 

Holster shoots him a reproachful glance. “As if you wouldn’t love anything I show you.”

 

“ _Fifth Element_ , for one,” he says. “The Matrix sequels.  _Forgetting Sarah Marshall_.”

 

“Okay, I get it, you don’t like tacky sci-fi and Russell Brand,” says Holster. “But I’ve got a pretty good batting average.”

 

“You do,” he concedes. “Still, good to be prepared.”

 

Within ten minutes, he has to admit he is enjoying the move. It’s strange, but strange in just the way Holster loves most and in a way he can appreciate as well. Still, he keeps his mind only half-focused on the move. He can’t afford to miss this opportunity.

 

After tipping back his bottle to swallow the dredges of his drink, he sets aside the bottle and swings his now free hand around Holster’s shoulders, allowing his body to lean in.

 

Holster barely reacts. He only moves to grab another handful of popcorn, shoving most of it in his mouth with no regard for any crumbs spewing across the table. He doesn’t flinch beneath Justin’s touch, not even when Justin feels like his touch ought to be scalding. He’s never been more aware of every point of contact, of every gap between their skin.

 

Five minutes later, he shifts, tilting his body even further towards Holster. His fingers curl gently around Holster’s biceps, and his chin comes to a gentle rest across Holster’s shoulder.

 

Holster sighs, and Justin’s terrified he’s moved too fast, especially when Holster shrugs out of his touch.

 

But then Holster wraps his own arm around Justin’s body and places the two of them firmly together, with Justin’s head alighting just at Holster’s collarbone.

 

“Dude, I know you like to be the little spoon,” says Holster. “You don’t have to be so sneaky about it.”

 

What?

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You’re trying to get cozy in here,” says Holster, “when all you gotta do is ask. Just, you know, do what you want with my body.” He smirks sleazily, entirely ignorant of Justin’s sudden arrhythmia.  _Do what you want with my body_ —is Holster trying to kill him before graduation.

 

“Uh,” he says, still stuck.

 

“It’s okay, Rans,” says Holster, tucking Justin closer to his chest. “I’ve seen you fall asleep in just about every possible position, and you relax more when you have something against your back.” He squeezes Justin’s arm. “I don’t mind. It’s kind of like having my own little teddy bear.”

 

_That_  he definitely needs to rebuke. “I am not a little teddy bear.”

 

“Course not, Ransy-poo,” says Holster in that flippant tone which just exudes smugness. “You’re a very large teddy bear. One of those life-size ones little kids gawk at in the store. Now hush,” he orders before Justin can speak again. “We need to watch this scene.”

 

The rest of the movie isn’t unenjoyable. In fact, if Justin needed to rate the experience, spending two hours pressed against Holster’s solid body, feeling the steady rise and fall of the chest behind him, engulfed in remnants of Holster’s cologne, is probably one of the better snippets of his life. His body still tingles and echoes with the touch after they’ve separated.

 

But he’s no closer to knowing how Holster feels. In fact, he’s more confused than ever.

 

 

He does ask Lardo how she and Shitty finally broke down their years of sexual tension and got their shit together. But then she starts talking about art as a metaphor for vaginas and Shitty wearing a paint smock and absolutely nothing else underneath, and quite frankly, he’s not equipped to handle this information. He excuses himself quickly from the conversation and leaves well enough alone.

 

 

The low point comes when he asks Jack for help.

 

“How did you ask Bitty out?” he asks Jack morosely over skype.

 

Jack chokes on his Gatorade. “What?” he rasps, still coughing around sports drink.

 

Justin rolls his eyes. “Sorry, probably should have prefaced this by saying, ‘Hi, Jack. I know you’re dating Bitty because I’m not legally blind and because I have ears which can hear Bitty calling you sweetpea over skype when he thinks he’s being quiet.’” Jack glares balefully through the computer screen. “Now that we’ve established this, how did you ask him out?”

 

And Jack, for the first time in the three years Justin’s known him, blushes. Then he proceeds to stammer out a mess of words which probably don’t belong to either of the two languages he speaks, and clears his throat again.

 

“You’re going to have to actually use words,” Justin remarks drily.

 

“Sorry, I just…I was not expecting that.”

 

“Yeah, Holtzy and I and the rest of the gang planned on telling you we all knew later, but desperate times call for desperate measures.”

 

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Desperate times?”

 

“I need to ask someone out. I want to know if I have a chance with him, but I’m just…I’m not sure how to approach things. So I thought that if even  _you_  could figure things out, maybe there would be some hope.”

 

“I might not be your captain, but I can still kick your ass,” says Jack.

 

“Not from Providence, you can’t,” says Justin. “So, how’d you do it?”

 

Again, Jack blushes and Justin has to keep himself from rolling his eyes. If Holster were here, he would have cackled. Eventually, Jack mumbles, “I gave him a figure.”

 

“A figure.”

 

“Yeah, uh, a figure. Well, my figure to be more specific. A hockey figure of me. I guess, that’s how I officially asked him to be my boyfriend.”

 

Justin stares at the screen. “You gave Bitty a figure of yourself?”

 

Jack nods.

 

Justin thumps his head into his hands. “Well, that’s just perfect because guess what, most people don’t have figures of themselves readily available!”

 

“I did have to go out and buy it,” says Jack.

 

“That is so  _not_  the point,” he replies, and Jack has the decency to at least seem a little sheepish. “But wow, okay, I see how things are going to be. Fuck, Zimmerman, I definitely don’t have the means to pull that one off.”

 

“It doesn’t have to be a figure,” says Jack. “You could also give a photo? If that’s not too weird, depending on how well you know this person.”

 

The thing is, Holster already has a photo of him in his wallet. Which is maybe a different discussion entirely, but the point is that Justin giving him a photo would just be superfluous. And that’s not even considering the fact that giving someone a photo of himself seems a little…arrogant, perhaps, or just a little bit extra. Holster had specifically asked for the photo he currently possesses.

 

“You know, I think I’m going to find my own way of doing things,” he says. “But, you know, thanks.”

 

“You’re welcome,” says Jack, and he seems to genuinely believe he might’ve helped. Justin doesn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise.

 

He doesn’t have much of a heart for anything really.

 

Which is probably why he ends up drunk at one of their smaller shindigs, slumped on the porch steps despite the objectively freezing air. Even as a Canadian, he has to admit he might be a little cold. But that’s better than standing inside and watching Holster go about his normal routine, flirting with a cute girl in the corner or wrapping his arms around him and crowing in delight as they defeat yet another helpless victim in slapcup. It should be fun. It is fun. But over the past couple weeks, he’s found it increasingly hard to spend time around Holster without that nagging thought intruding into his brain, the thought of  _you’re so close, just kiss him, just kiss him and fuck the consequences._ That thought. And it shouldn’t interfere with his ability to enjoy quality time with his best friend, but somehow it is, and now there’s guilt mixed into his lovesickness, a sort of doubly unappetizing stew, the kind even Holster might refuse to eat.

 

He’s halfway through the drink in his solo cup, definitely more than tipsy, but still contemplating finishing off the drink. Maybe he’ll feel looser if he does. Maybe he’ll feel, if not better, then at least warm.

 

“Ransom, what are you doing out there?”

 

It sounds like Chowder. Footsteps approach from behind, and then a warm body settles next to him on the steps. A warm body wearing a distinctive turquoise sweatshirt. Definitely Chowder.

 

“Aren’t you freezing?” says Chris.

 

Justin stares into his cup, then takes another sip. “Probably,” he says.

 

“Then come inside,” says Chowder.

 

Justin heaves a sigh, and he knows he’s being ridiculous, knows he’s being dramatic in a way even Holster might disapprove of. It still doesn’t change the way he feels. “I don’t want to.” It comes out more petulant than he intends.

 

“Why not?” say Chowder. “Everyone’s having a great time. Pretty sure Holster just creamed one of the lax bros in pong with Lardo, though that might have been more Lardo than him.”

 

“Holster can hold his own.”

 

“Probably,” agrees Chowder. “But he’s already complained about missing you.”

 

He snorts out a laugh, which fogs in the air. “Yeah, I bet he has.” He takes another sip of his drink.

 

Chowder pauses, and Justin can sense his hesitation and his uncertainty. In Chowder’s frog year he definitely would have barged right ahead, oblivious to some of the subtleties of the situation. But he’s learned. He’s definitely learned.

 

“What’s wrong, Ransom?” asks Chris quietly. “Is something wrong?”

 

Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the now months of frustration and aggravation and pent up emotion which normally he would have vented to Holster but which he  _couldn’t_ , of course, but he needs to spill it to someone. “I’m in love with Holster,” he says. “And I have no idea if he likes me back or how to deal with it.” He turns to face Chowder, who’s wearing an inscrutable expression. “And I’ve tried to hint that I like him, that I want something more, but each time I get nowhere.” He looks away. “It’s just hard to be near him sometimes.”

 

For a moment, he’s afraid he’s broken Chowder. Then, when Chowder stands up to leave, he knows he’s fucked up. “Why not?” he mutters to himself, chugging back the rest of his drink. Without Chowder’s body heat and shield from the wind, the cold bites even deeper into his skin, but the prospect of going back inside, of facing Holster and now Chowder is far too much.

 

Then the door to the outside opens behind him, and Chowder’s voice rings clear. “Did you ever think to just ask him? That’s what I did with Caitlin.”

 

Justin turns around, but the door has already shut, and Chowder has returned inside. But Holster has taken his place. He’s clutching a winter jacket.

 

“Like, I know that hypothermia is a badge of honor among Canadians, but this is ridiculous,” says Holster. He drapes his coat across Justin’s shoulders, gently, and settles next to him on the porch steps.

 

“What are you doing here?” Justin asks.

 

“For one,” says Holster, holding out his index finger in a counting motion, “making sure that you don’t turn into a fudgsicle out here. Delicious, but much easier to come by than best friends. And two, when one of the frogs has to come get me because you’re moping out on the front porch, I pay attention.”

 

“I’m fine,” he says.

 

“Don’t lie to me,” says Holster. When Justin turns away, he grabs his face and physically turns it so that they are facing each other. Holster looks him straight in the eye. “I’m serious. Don’t lie to me.”

 

Justin gulps. “Fine. I’m not okay. You happy?”

 

“Am I’m happy you’re not okay? No. But I am happy you’re being honest. What’s up, Oluransi? All Chowder told me is that we needed to talk. Which was kind of surprising, given that I spend at least half my waking hours talking to you somehow. But I trust the man. So spill.”

 

He tries not to let his voice shake, but it’s pretty much a lost cause. “Hypothetically, have you ever…have you ever been in love with someone before? And you’re trying to tell them, but you’re also so nervous you might screw things up and you just can’t…you  _can’t_  fuck it up because if you lose them, you’re pretty sure you’ll die? And not even an exaggeration, because this person is at least 75% of the reason you’ve survived college.”

 

Holster tilts his neck. “This is a pretty specific hypothetical.”

 

“That’s because it’s not a hypothetical,” he snaps, then recoils. “Sorry, I’m a little tense. And I’m just so sick of trying to dance around this subject because I tell you everything, except for this and it feels wrong to hide it. I’m just so sick of hiding.”

 

“Hiding what?”

 

“That I’m in love with you. That I have been for a while, but ever since you came out to me at the library, it’s all I’ve been able think about. That it’s literally driving me up a wall, and I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks, and nothing seems to work. Not food, or compliments, or physical contact. Did you know I asked Jack for help? Jack! Jack Zimmerman, the world’s most romantically inept hockey robot!”

 

“Wait, slow down,” says Holster. He pushes his glasses up his nose—the cold air must be bugging his contacts—and places a hand on Justin’s shoulder. “You’re in love with me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And you’ve been trying to ask me out for weeks?”

 

“Kind of? I was also just trying to see how you’d respond. But, uh, it didn’t work very well.”

 

Holster’s breath fogged in the air as he sighed. “Justin, it pains me to say this, and I trust that I do not say this lightly. But you are such an idiot.” He stands up. “Wait here. Don’t move, and try not to freeze until I come back.”

 

Holster leaves him alone in the cold. Unlike before, he doesn’t take long to return. This time, instead of holding a jacket, he’s clutching a ratty piece of paper. He shoves it into Justin’s hands. “Read this,” he says.

 

Justin glances at the list. Beneath several coffee stains and wrinkles, he can read the top line, scrawled in Holster’s chicken scratch handwriting. “Reasons I Might be Gay.”

 

“You’re not gay, though,” he says.

 

“No, I’m not,” says Holster. “But that’s totally not the point.”

 

“What is this?” he says, gesturing to the list.

 

Holster rolls his eyes. “I thought it was rather obvious. I know lists are kind of your thing, but I thought I’d try it out when I was, you know, figuring everything out. It kind of helped. Just read it.”

 

He reads the list. It starts off predictably.

 

_My admiration for Jack’s ass might not be totally aesthetic based_

_I really like beards_

_I was more attached to several teammates growing up than I should have been_

_I’ve spent as much time on the men in the ESPN body issue as I have on the women_

Then he gets to the line which stops his breath.

 

_Ransom is the most beautiful person I know_

_Like, super hot_

 

He scans the rest of the list. Several more lines echo the same sentiment. His favorite is probably near the bottom:  _Sometimes when he’s asleep, I look at him and forget to breathe_.

 

He’s done the exact same thing.

 

It takes him a moment to collect his thoughts and his voice. “It says, ‘Ransom’s really hot,” on here like five times.

 

Holster shrugs. “What can I say, your hotness was a very important part of my grand gay epiphany. Or not gay epiphany, bi-epiphany, whatever. Gay epiphany sounds better.”

 

Justin croaks, “What are you saying?”

 

Holster just smiles, an uncommonly small, nervous smile. “Turn over the page.’

 

_I’m definitely in love with Justin Oluransi_ , it says.

 

He’s still staring at the page when Holster begins speaking. “I was going to wait until after you got your acceptance to med school to tell you—seemed like it would reduce the stress potential, and that you’d, you know, have more time to figure everything out after. Don’t want to shift the balance of the coral reef.”

 

When he looks up, Holster’s grin is crooked, and despite the chill, he’s melting. “You love me?”

 

Holster nods slowly. “Is that okay?”

 

Justin says nothing. Instead, he leans over and kisses Holster. His stubble scrapes against Holster’s beard, and he’s sure his mouth tastes like whiskey, but he doesn’t care. He’s finally kissing Holster, and Holster is in love with him, and that glimmer of hope which slipped through the cracks over the summer burgeons into full bloom, spreading like a starburst in his chest. It’s not just hope, he realizes with growing joy. It’s fulfillment.

 

When he pulls away, the only thing he can think to say is, “I love you, Adam Birkholtz.”

 

Holster wrinkles his nose. “Right back at you, bro.”

 

And Justin realizes that he’d approached this whole situation wrong. Holster isn’t subtle, and he isn’t a gooey romantic either. The way to get Adam Birkholtz to fall in love with him was to be as direct and forthright as possible. The way to get Holster to fall in love with him was, well, to act as he already would. Because that was why they’d fallen in love in the first place. If Holster loved Neruda and thought an arm around the shoulder constituted a romantic overture, then he wouldn’t have been the best friend he already loved.

 

Holster is a straightforward man. All he needed to do was ask.

 

Holster shivers violently beneath a fresh gust of wind, and Justin realizes that he is, in fact, wearing Holster’s coat.

 

“Let’s go back inside. Wouldn’t want you freezing.”

 

“Then we could match,” says Holster between chattering teeth. “Creamsicle and fudgsicle.”

 

“Dude.”

 

“Like one of those chocolate and vanilla hoodie cups.”

 

“Dude…what?”

 

“You know the…oh, never mind. You do things weird in Canada. I forget you think bagged milk is normal. Let’s just go inside.”

 

They step inside the Haus just as Holster slips their hands together, casually, as if no one might notice.

 

“Ransom, there you are!” calls out Lardo from the pong table. “I was beginning to wonder where—Oh. My. God.” She focuses her laser-like vision on their clasped hands, then grins. “Fine! So many fines!”

 

Holster brushes her aside. “First night is free,” he says. “New rule.”

 

Chowder, who’s definitely suffered the most under the system, protests. “Hey, how come—

 

“We’re both the captains here,” says Justin. “Our word is law.” He nudges Holster. “Right, babe?”

 

Lardo’s eyes widen as Holster bares his teeth in his sleaziest smile. “Look out, peons. There’s a new era coming to this Haus.” He turns to Justin. “It’s Ransom and Holster’s world. You’re all just living it.” Then, entirely unnecessarily, he adds, “By the way, it’s a small bed up there and we’re big dudes, so expect some noise.”

 

Everyone shouts or groans in disgust. Justin just smiles. This is the man he’s chosen, and he couldn’t be happier with his decision, even if Lardo has enough chirping material for the rest of their goddamn lives. They’ll probably owe Bitty another oven by the end of the year. But when Holster smiles back, sincere and earnest and totally devoted to _him_ , he knows it’ll be worth every penny.

 


End file.
